‘Life’s a Beach’ - or - AnD nOw FoR sOmEtHiNg CoMpLeTeLy DiFfErEnT -

[Mr. Twister]

Kahuna....Were they selling the fish to a restaurant? I encouraged some of the local chef's to put it on their menu on my last trip to help decrease the lionfish population.

[Kahuna3]

Kahuna....Were they selling the fish to a restaurant? I encouraged some of the local chef's to put it on their menu on my last trip to help decrease the lionfish population.

Mr. Twister - I don't know where the lion fish were destined, I just saw them and snapped a photo and didn't ask any questions.

Earlier today Fabs and I were sitting in our usual spot next to the sun deck when three females pulled up close to us, an older woman and two teenagers. They were speaking French – it sounded like the Quebec variety. They made a big deal about getting settled, a lot of talking, moving their beach bags around and flapping of towels. They were loud and brash and had potty-mouths (I speak French, so I understood their lingo). From the way they acted I quickly formed the opinion that they were the ‘trailer-park/Jersey-Shore-trash’ type (no offence to anyone who lives in a trailer park or in Jersey). When the trio was finally settled, one of the girls turned on her boom box and cranked it up. The ‘music’ was the typical crap that girls her age listen to.

Fabs and I figured that it was a either a mother with her two daughters, or a mother and daughter with a friend. Anyhow, these girls were maybe (and I’m being generous here), eighteenish – it’s hard to tell these days. After a few minutes the girls decided to go for a swim. They stood up and popped their tops off; their bottoms were micro-thongs.

I’m no prude but I felt a little uneasy seeing these really young girls flaunting their still-developing bodies – and so did Fabs. And make no mistake – these two Lolitas were strutting and preening and putting on a show.

We decided that we would go for a walk up to Sun Beach for a beer and check the beach scene – which we did. We had a couple up there and then slowly headed back to White Sands. When we got back we were a little surprised to see that the mom and teenagers had moved onto our lounges, having placed our towels on the lounges that they’d previously occupied. Not a big deal, but . . . hey.

The mom looked to be on the downside of her forties; she had that ‘rode-hard-and-put-away-wet’ look about her. She came over and explained that they had to move us because they needed to get closer to the plug-in under the sun-deck for their boom box. Then she gave Fabs a big smile and a twiddly-finger wave and walked away twitching her substantial backside as she went.

“Yah gonna take one for the team there, Fabs?” I prodded.

“There is not enough liquor in Jamaica, brother,” he snorted.

“You sure? I think she’s got it for you. Maybe you could arrange for a mother-daughter thing? You know, Wilt Chamberlain style, you told me you always wanted to do that.”

Fabs had a pained expression. “Absolutely no way! Besides, did you see her arse? Looks like the north end of a south-bound cow. It’d be like throwing a banana down a hallway.”

Presently the trio attracted the attention of a twenty-something guy who had stopped at the bar for a beer. We were within earshot of them and couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

Fabs, who was closer to them than me, said, “Dude, those girls and the old babe are talkin’ with that young guy about doing a porno!”

“You’re sh!tin’ me,” I said. I started to listen more closely.

Sure enough, they had a little screenplay written up and they were going over it with this guy asking if he would like to be in their video! He was definitely into it; like most young guys would be. They were saying, (and I’ll be general here), ‘you do this with her, and then I come over and you do this and that, and . . .’

No kidding. It was disgusting because these girls were so young and trashy, and it was like the mom was pimping them out. I guess maybe she handled the camera and lighting. In fact it was so disgusting that I’m not going to talk about it anymore.

We wanted to get away, so we went up onto the sun-deck (smoke deck) to get a better view down the beach. We were up there for a couple of minutes when this huge, jacked-up guy walked up onto the deck and strutted over to the railing. This dude was so ripped it was freaky. He probably has muscle fibers in his excrement. He was shaved bald and was wearing a super-tight, white stretchy top pulled over his massively muscled torso. He had a kind-of Mike Tyson-ish look to him.

Now, Fabs is pretty well built, but standing beside this dude he looked like Pee Wee Herman.

Anyhow, this guy sucked in a deep breath, puffed out his bull–sized chest, put his arms out like a preacher embracing his flock, and announced, “My country!”

“So you’re Jamaican?” I asked.

“I’m Jamerican!” he boasted.

“Oh,” I said.

He beamed at me and then pointed directly to the west. “Forty miles! Cuba!” he exclaimed loudly.

Fabs and I looked at each other and smiled.

“No, Dude. That’s the Yucatan out that way. Cuba is over there,” Fabs said, pointing to the north. “And it’s more like a hundred and twenty miles.”

The guy looked at Fabs, then nodded and looked to the north.

“Yeah, Cuba, that way,” he said.